That Day

for my daughter

She arrives looseygoosey through the door light on her toes
despite a few days of separation, for years our weekly ritual.
Our eyes meet grey to grey and her skin color mine, though
reaching down to kiss her forehead seemed easier that day.

Hands could always effortlessly wrap around
my fingertips meeting at her sometimes ponytail,
or mingling among those tangled golden curls.

And when did her head snug in at my chest when we hugged?
Like the kitchen door frame penciled ever higher in our old house,
maybe our bodies will mark those imperceptable passages now?
Time. It seems to move so slowly until that day, when it doesn’t.